Dante’s POV

The cemetery was quiet.

I never stayed long when I visited. Not because I didn’t want to—I just never knew what to say. What could I say? Apologies meant nothing to the dead.

I crouched beside the headstone, my fingers brushing against the engraved marble. My father’s name stood out in bold lettering. Leandro Romano. It had been sixteen years since he was gunned down in the streets, sixteen years since I’d taken over.

But the guilt that settled in my chest didn’t ...